Silly Old Bear

There are certain moments in motherhood that I've been looking forward to my whole life--visits from Santa, baking cookies, treats from the ice cream truck, an ash tray made of clay given to me on Mother's Day. (Notice that these dreams left out the things that make up most of motherhood--poop, dirty laundry, and just general stickiness.) Yesterday, in an effort to stretch out nap time and keep Henry on his bed, I was able to begin one of my dreamed of Mommy moments: Read aloud chapter books. You know, the kind without pictures. Or at least, without many pictures.

As a kid, I loved being read to. I remember every Friday afternoon in the fourth grade, Mrs. Fay would read for the last hour of school--the Indian in the Cupboard, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlotte's Web, Brighty of Grand Canyon. My parents may have read chapter books to me and I simply don't remember it. I don't know.

And surprisingly, Henry did pretty well with the book. A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh, whose name really is Edward despite his living under the name of Saunders. We made it through the first two chapters. Reading aloud in his big boy bed is a treat that the crib or toddler bed could not afford. He cuddled up next to me with his head on my shoulder, then would wriggle down putting his whole body on mine so he could hold the book and turn the pages. He would buzz like a bee and then burrow into the covers and begin to play peek-a-boo. I would stop reading and he would pop up and say, "No no, Mommy. Weed. Weed." I'm not requiring him to sit still for the reading, but he can't be talking.

So once he settled down again, this time, his head resting on my tummy while playing with a toy car on his legs, I began to read. Tut-tut, it looks like rain...